Stories and Whispers
by Emerald Embers
Summary: Emily didn't like books, but she did like stories, and she definitely liked Wyman. Emily/Wyman, written pre-Dishonored 2's release.


**Summary:** Emily didn't like books, but she did like stories, and she definitely liked Wyman.

 **Author's Notes:** This was written before The Corroded Man, The Wyrmwood Deceit, or Dishonored 2 came out and Wyman was just a figure occasionally mentioned in Harvey Smith's tweets, but it was fun to speculate about the kind of person they might be, especially if it opened up the possibility of Emily being a lesbian. Dedicated to arcanebond, with thanks to Nyx Midnight for betaing.

* * *

Emily hated reading, but that was not the same thing as hating stories.

"Reading" had been synonymous with "studying" for too many years, pouring over dry old books written by dry old men, and it was only through practice that she had learned not to wince or sneer when handed volumes of philosophy, science, and history as gifts.

Stories were something else; they were half-whispered tales from her mother and father, fantasies to send her off to sleep, adventures to ease her boredom, and no story ever felt exactly the same. She had heard of Corvo and Jessamine's first meeting from both their lips, and even if the settings were the same, the events the same, the dialogue mostly the same, the telling was entirely different.

Jessamine had seen humour in Corvo that he never spoke of in himself, and Corvo had barely been able to describe Jessamine at all, even before her death. Jessamine had always overwhelmed Corvo, and it was a sentiment Emily struggled for years to understand.

It hadn't helped that she had looked for understanding in the wrong places.

She had never disliked boys, but she had never found them particularly interesting, either. Her mother had never married, and she saw no reason she should do the same; the boys in books all seemed arrogant or prissy, and her stays at the Golden Cat and at the Hound Pits had done little to persuade her to like men.

They could be handsome in a distant sort of way, much like a beautiful painting or a well groomed cat, and they could be strong, brave, funny, but she had never felt lightning strike while looking at a boy.

She had put lightning strikes aside, thinking of them as something that happened to other women, perhaps exclusively fictional ones, before sheer chance lead her into one.

She had been friends with Wyman for years, growing up alongside her and all too glad to be reunited when Jessamine's court reassembled after a careful, thorough culling of its members. Wyman had been the daughter of a courtier just as Emily was the daughter of an empress, and they had grown up into their respective roles, keeping polite conversation in company and saving mischief and gossip for what little time they could find alone.

Emily had shown up late to a meeting in one of the palace's gardens, found Wyman reading alone, and something about the sight had taken her breath away. Emily never could place what did it - whether it was the sun reflecting golden off Wyman's curls, the freckled skin of her bared arms, or just the way she seemed so at peace, as if the world around her had disappeared.

Emily knew of the Daughter of Tyvia, had heard about it in jokes and in quotations from the play, but something about it had never quite made sense to her.

It made sense now.

"What are you reading?" Emily had asked, Wyman startling at her voice before blushing fiercely and hiding the book.

The Young Prince of Tyvia, as it turned out.

Close enough.

.

It would be years yet before hints and half-confessions and all too many agonising moments of wondering if she had overstepped a line or misread a signal lead to their first real kiss. There had been plenty stolen in the guise of roleplaying, and a few light brushes of lips when whisky had made one or the other of them brave, but Emily knew which kiss was the first to truly count.

Emily had left the yearly feast celebrating her mother's reign early, needing privacy, and it was more her feet than conscious thought that lead her to Wyman's bedroom.

Wyman had taken her in, comforted her, read to her from a poem she was in the middle of composing, and Emily had cut her off with a simple, impossible question.

"Of course," was the answer, and Wyman set down her papers. "I think I always have."

Emily grabbed her, kissed her, and whispered, "I love you too."

And whispered it again, and kissed her again, and again, and again, kissing "I love you" into Wyman's neck, shoulder, chest, and didn't stop until long after they were both half-naked and the words became soft and wet secrets between Wyman's thighs.

.

Emily hated reading, but loved to be read to, if it was by the right person.

The book was dull, but Emily was more preoccupied with listening to Wyman's voice, watching her half-lidded eyes, the form of her lips around each consonant and vowel.

Sex left Emily pleasantly drowsy and Wyman pleasantly not, and having Wyman read her to sleep was a workaround they had enjoyed for some months now. Not every night they spent together, but often enough that it felt like tradition, and a tradition Emily was happy to keep.

Emily stroked over the swell of Wyman's stomach, loving her warmth, loving how the bed still smelled like sex, and wishing hygiene did not demand the changing of bedlinen. When work or family commitments meant Wyman leaving the palace, Emily often held onto the sheets despite the maids' protests, wanting to keep the silvery trails left by hands wiped clean, the scent of heated nights trapped in cloth. She had lived with real filth enough times that it was a struggle to think of anything Wyman had touched as soiled.

An idle thought made Emily stiffen, digging in her fingers without meaning to, and Wyman quickly bookmarked her page before setting the book aside and running her fingers through Emily's hair. "What is it?"

Emily pursed her lips, reluctant to risk spoiling the moment, but Wyman's eyes were as firm as they were gentle. "We can't be this happy forever," Emily said. She wasn't her mother, she had trained and trained and trained, and looked for deception in every corner, but she wasn't immortal either. Corvo, Wyman, herself - all mortal.

Wyman looked pensive at first, then nodded. "But you're happy now, aren't you?"

"Yes -"

"Then that's what matters."

Emily wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe they would see many more moments like this; she wanted to believe that if Corvo had learned to smile again, then even if the worst were to happen, she would smile again too someday.

Emily shifted so she could rest her head on Wyman's chest and listen to the soft thudding of her heart.

It was a sound that set her own one at peace.


End file.
